


A Study in Deception

by iColorWithCrayons



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: At least Sherlock is Sherlock, Don't get too excited about Sebastian either, He's just a voice on a phone, John is Moriarty, M/M, Sorry Sherlock, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iColorWithCrayons/pseuds/iColorWithCrayons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John Watson was not the man he said he was? What if he was the criminal mastermind pulling at each and every one of Sherlock Holmes' delicate strings?<br/>(Exchangelock AU Prompt: What if (at the pool scene in “the great game”) John was actually Moriarty?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Deception

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty then! This is already posted on tumblr, but I thought I might as well put it here for anyone else wondering what might have happened had John been the world's first consulting criminal. You'll have to forgive me for the change in character - I don't know if I would have chosen this prompt for myself, but regardless, here it is.   
> Any feedback you have to offer would be much appreciated!

“Brought you a little ‘get to know you’ present,” Sherlock called into the empty pool, waving the flash drive in the air triumphantly, “That’s what it’s all been for, isn’t it?”

The consulting detective looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who had been his most challenging opponent yet, before continuing. “All your puzzles, making me dance; all to distract me from this.”

Frustrated that the criminal had not taken the bait and shown his face, Sherlock turned to face the door, briefly wondering if he had been set up. It was an optimal murder conditions, after all. He vaguely wondered if his tendency towards dramatic entrances was to blame for his many near-death experiences, but shrugged the idea off quickly. Dramatic entrances made him look cool.

There was a creak from behind him, causing the consulting detective to whip around, anxious to see the face behind the series of riddles he had solved over the past few weeks.

To his immense surprise, John Watson was leaning against one of the shower stalls, a small smirk playing on his lips, his eyes alight with amusement. Where Sherlock’s deductions usually appeared were the words “liar” and “Moriarty”.

“John?” Sherlock winced at how small his voice was.

John’s smirk widened as he stood up straight and ambled towards Sherlock lazily.

“Now, come on, Sherlock,” The blond drawled in a smoother tone than Sherlock knew him capable of, “There’s no need to look so down in the dumps. Did you honestly prefer the John Watson that you knew? The blissfully ignorant creature who believed you were a god? You couldn’t have.”

Sherlock clenched his fists, his mind racing with information. Mycroft would be very cross at him for getting involved yet again; the worst of it was, the fat old man would be entirely correct to do so. He had been taken in by John’s lies; he had believed him entirely. If and when he returned to his flat, his John would not be there. His John would never be there again. In his place would be this man with the terrible smirk. He thought back to the number of times that he had mocked John’s intelligence, all while falling for the criminal’s own devious plan. How ironic.

“So, you’re Moriarty?” The consulting detective challenged, maintaining his cool exterior with some difficulty.

John laughed. “I made up Moriarty, Sherlock. I couldn’t walk around the streets of London if my clients knew who I was. You’ve met a few of them; I’m sure you understand.”

“Why did you go through all of this trouble? We shared a flat. You had access to me almost every second of every day. There was no need to part with thirty million quid just to get me alone in a secluded environment.” Sherlock reasoned, struggling to recover the upper hand that he was realizing had never truly been his.

John shrugged, taking another step towards Sherlock. The consulting detective’s hand twitched towards the revolver in his pocket. He briefly wondered if he would be capable of killing John Watson.

“I’ve said it before, haven’t I? I like watching you dance. Oh, no, there’s no need for the gun. I have no intention of hurting you. If I wanted you gone, you would’ve been ten feet underground months ago. You’re much more interesting when you’re alive.” The shorter man replied cheerfully.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “So what, then? You take the Partington plans and flee the country? Find a way to frame me for treason? What is the next plan of action, John?” He demanded.

“I hardly think that I would need to frame you. You are committing treason by offering me those plans, you know. Mycroft would not be pleased with you. Anyway, you might as well return them to your brother. I couldn’t care less about the bloody plans.” John responded with a smile.

“Pray tell, what is the plan of action?” Sherlock inquired, his fingers brushing against the revolver in his pocket in an attempt to soothe himself.

John’s eyes lit up at the question. “You have to die.” He answered pleasantly.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. He was not afraid, he realized. Dying at the hands of an incredibly interesting John Watson was not the worst way to go by any means. He would not have to worry about leaving behind a grieving flatmate, at the very least.

“I thought you had no intention of hurting me?” The consulting detective reminded his opponent.

“I don’t,” John agreed, “but if I don’t, someone else will. You have no idea, you truly don’t. There are so many people just like me who have had their eye on you for years. They’d love to have you, Sherlock. They’d love to possess that cold, calculating mind. They’d love to say that they've bested the best. I’ve kept them at bay for as long as I could, but now it’s time for you to die. Or, at least, convince the rest of the world that you’re dead. If it’s in the newspapers, it must be true.”

“You want me to fake my own death.” Sherlock clarified.

“Very good.” John praised with a small smirk.

“Why? Why not just kill me? Say that you defeated the great Sherlock Holmes? I’m sure you would receive even more clients. Where’s your advantage in keeping me alive?” Sherlock demanded, irritated that John was not following the most rational path of logic.

John cocked his head, looking mildly surprised. “Would you like me to kill you, Sherlock? Would you like to die at the hands of a man you believed that you could trust?”

“I don’t relish the thought, nor do I shy away from it. It is the most rational decision. Everything grows complicated if I survive.” Sherlock growled, taking a step towards John, intentionally towering over his former flatmate.

To his surprise, John just laughed, looking completely at ease even under the circumstances.

“As far as I’m concerned, anything grows complicated the moment it involves you. Whether or not you want to die isn’t particularly important. In case you haven’t noticed, I have put a great deal of effort into keeping you alive, mostly for my own sake.”

Sherlock looked as unimpressed as he could. “You still haven’t told me why you’ve kept me alive. I’m very curious to hear your reasoning.”

“I’ll tell you what, Sherlock. I’ll give you my entire story. Once I finish, you can decide whether or not you want to fake your death. Just know that if you decide against it, I will consider it an act of kindness to kill you before my competitors get to you, and I really, really don’t want to do that.” John responded, sparing his flatmate a painfully familiar smile before leaning against the wall and waiting for Sherlock to respond.

“How do I know that you aren’t making up yet another story? You seem to be rather good at it.” Sherlock remarked cynically.

“You’ll just have to trust me.” John answered with a small shrug.

Sherlock snorted at the irony. John smirked.

“Let’s hear it, then.” The consulting detective drawled, folding his arms across his chest expectantly.

“My parents died when Harry and I were kids - yes, Harry is real - leaving us to take care of ourselves. While I tried to balance school, work, and rugby, Harry drank all of our money away. We never had enough; if I didn’t find another way to make money, we would starve. So I enlisted a few of my rugby friends with lesser morals and created a small web. It was nothing serious - nobody got hurt - we would just slip a few things out of lockers, take a few wallets here and there; the bare necessities for survival,” John began, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face, as though he was trying to justify his actions.

“Petty theft is usually a starting point for criminals, although I did expect a bit more from someone of your caliber. Continue,” Sherlock muttered in the most patronizing tone he could manage, watching John through narrow eyes.

To Sherlock’s surprise, John just chuckled.

“I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you with my meager beginning. Anyway,” The shorter man continued, “I set up a bit of a web, but tried to straighten my act when I joined the army. Getting caught nicking somebody’s wallet would get me kicked out and jailed. I couldn’t risk that when Harry was still depending on me. After going straight for a little while, some of my mates started telling me about the crimes they’d seen, the different ways that people had tried to get away with murder. That’s when I heard about you.”

“Hm.” Sherlock murmured, forcing himself to look unimpressed.

“Suddenly I had something to do besides tend to the weak and outsmart the stupid. I had competition. I wanted to see if you were as good as they said you were, so I threw a few curveballs in your direction to see if you would be worth my time. Mrs. Hudson’s husband, the murder that Angelo had been accused of...little things, you know, but just enough to confuse poor Greg Lestrade.”

“Anything is enough to confuse Greg Lestrade.” Sherlock snorted.

John shrugged in agreement. “Once you proved to be slightly above average intelligence, I did my research. You were looking for a flat in the area, and you were working out of St. Bart’s until you found a place of residence. I tracked down Mike Stamford, managed to make it look like an accident, and the rest was just history.”

“The psychosomatic limp?” Sherlock inquired.

“Just enough to keep you interested.” John answered smugly.

Sherlock nodded, disgusted that he had been so easily manipulated. “Clever.”

“Living with you only made things simpler. Stringing together a criminal web while living with their greatest adversary was a piece of cake. I already had Jefferson Hope operating; he was the first domino in a line.”  John agreed with a smirk.

Sherlock took a few steps to the side, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “You shot him to dispose of the evidence - of course.”

John nodded, his smug grin fading only slightly. “I couldn’t let one stupid cabbie ruin my plan. I did have plans for you, you know. Oh, there were a few ways I could’ve gone about it. I could have poisoned your food and watched the look on your face as you realized a bit too late that your best friend was also your killer. I could have smothered you in your sleep and felt the life leave your body. I could have decapitated you while you were stumbling around that insipid mind palace of yours and left your corpse on Mycroft’s doorstep. There were so many things I could have done to you, Sherlock, but none of them seemed quite so appealing after that first night in Baker Street.”

“So that’s why you’re keeping me alive, then? Can’t think of a satisfying way to kill me?” Sherlock inquired, not so much out of anger, but instead out of interest.

John laughed. “I wish it were that simple. I didn’t plan to like you quite as much as I did.”

Sherlock was rendered speechless. He arched a cynical eyebrow, waiting for John to further explain himself.

“You’re a mad bastard, Sherlock Holmes,” The shorter man commented, following and mimicking Sherlock’s movements like a jungle cat waiting to pounce, “And I don’t think that I have any interest in a life in which you do not exist.”

“Are you…?” Sherlock trailed off hopefully, unsure of how to describe John’s behavior.

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dull, Sherlock. You know I’m not very good at this sort of thing. You have your options. Now you have to make a choice.”

“Describe to me exactly what would happen if I were to fake my death.” Sherlock challenged.

“You’re stalling,” John disproved in an exasperated tone, “but this might be the last time I see you alive, so I’ll let it go. If you fake your death, you and I will go to a country - the name of which I’m not at liberty to tell you in the open like this - where I will resume my existence as John Watson. Jim Moriarty’s name will appear in the obituary column of the newspaper tomorrow morning, alongside of your name. If you choose to continue solving your little crimes, you will have to select smaller cases, which you can’t take credit for solving.”

“And what will occur between us?” Sherlock demanded.

John shrugged. “Whatever you want, Sherlock. I’m not going to force myself upon you. I’ll let you live whether or not you reciprocate any romantic feelings, provided that you still fake your death.”

“And what if,” Sherlock began, pausing to muddle through the string of words floating through his mind, “what if the feeling was reciprocated? For John Watson, of course. I’m not particularly fond of James Moriarty.”

John grinned. “I’ll phone the newspaper. They’ll want to hear about our tragic deaths.”

“And I’ll pack the bags.” Sherlock smirked.

As John strode past Sherlock, the taller man grabbed his arm, momentarily stopping him.

“If you lie to me again, I’ll take the other option. Lestrade may be a bumbling idiot, but Mycroft might be able to make just enough sense of the situation to figure it out a year or two after my death.” The consulting detective growled.

John laughed, completely at ease despite Sherlock’s threat. “Whatever you say.”

“And I get to solve your crimes.” Sherlock ventured, feeling a bit bolder.

“No shit, Sherlock.” John chuckled, sauntering in the direction of the door, “It wouldn’t be half as fun without you.”

* * *

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked around in confusion. He could hear John’s voice echoing throughout the pool, but could no longer see the man.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice repeated with an edge of exasperation.

Suddenly something - a pillow, Sherlock’s mind wildly supplied - hit the world’s only consulting detective in the face, snapping him back into consciousness.

“John?” He slurred, propping himself up against the headboard of his bed and looking at his flatmate stupidly. “How long have I been asleep?”

John glanced around the room before shrugging noncommittally. “Few hours, maybe a day or two.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and looked down at his clock. He knew that he slept like the dead once he had reached the end of a particularly challenging case, but this might have been a new record.

“It was all a dream, then.” He murmured, overwhelmed by a combination of relief and disappointment.

John was still John. That was good. However, John was still some other woman’s John. That was not so good.

“Have a nightmare?” The shorter man prompted as he approached the door to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock snorted. “Nightmares are for children, John.”

John rolled his eyes, but smiled good-naturedly. Sherlock had missed John’s warm demeanor. The almost reptilian coldness of John Watson the consulting criminal had been by far the worst part about his dream. Sherlock managed to suppress a contented sigh at the very sight of his smiling best friend.

“Want to talk about it? That sort of thing helps sometimes,” John offered with a sheepish smile, “I know when I, uh, well, erm,” he let out a meaningful cough, “It helped me out a bit.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

“Alright then,” John said in a surprisingly chipper voice, “feel like going out for Chinese? There’s nothing in and I’m starving.”

“I suppose I could eat.” Sherlock agreed at length.

John smiled and grasped the doorknob, clearly about to exit the room.

“John?”

The shorter man turned around, eyebrow quirked and head cocked. “Yeah?”

“What is the cleanest method of decapitation?”

John let out a huffy laugh. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with John’s answer. Had it been John Watson the consulting criminal, Sherlock would have undoubtedly received an immediate answer followed by numerous accounts of decapitations that John had witnessed and/or completed.

“Were you expecting an answer or do you want to talk about decapitations?” John questioned with a smile.

Sherlock shook his head. “I was just picking your brain. Useless, as always.”

“Good to be appreciated.” John rolled his eyes and exited the room, leaving Sherlock to his own relieved thoughts.

* * *

Shutting the consulting detective’s door, John quickly crossed the flat and pulled out his phone. His brows were furrowed and his smile had disappeared the moment he had exited Sherlock’s room. He glowered at Sherlock’s empty chair as he listened to a particularly annoying dial tone.

“Sebastian,” John murmured the moment his assistant answered the phone, “we’ve got a code delta on our hands.”

There was a long pause. John’s eyes did not stray from the chair as he listened to any excuses that Sebastian Moran had to offer. He was not particularly interested in excuses.

“Yes, it is imperative. It is my plan - I know when to enact it. His mind’s put it together much faster than I thought it would. He is a rather clever boy. I’ve thrown him off the trail for a bit - just a band-aid, really, he’ll figure it out before the week’s up - but that’s enough time for us to plan out his imminent demise. What do you think about a suicide leap off of St. Bart’s? It’s certainly a death dramatic enough for any of the Holmes boys.”

There was another pause. John could hear Sherlock opening and closing his closet numerous times. The consulting detective really did have an eye for fashion. John’s mouth crooked into a small smile as Sebastian continued to drone on.

“This is not a request,” John interrupted his assistant irritably, “this is your mission. Get Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart’s by the end of the week. If he’s so much as a minute late, your entire family will receive an incredibly unpleasant visit from a few business acquaintances of mine. Do you understand me?”

He hung up the phone before he could receive a response. He knew that Sebastian would follow through. He always did, especially when the stakes were this high.

As he tossed his phone onto the couch dispassionately, Sherlock exited his room, still looking thoroughly disoriented.

“Who was on the phone?” Sherlock asked, eying John’s phone cautiously.

John shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Harry, of course. Drunk as ever and asking me to patch things up with Clara.”

Sherlock nodded, apparently accepting this answer.

“Ready to go?” John asked, hoping to distract his flatmate.

“Mm.” Sherlock answered with a slight nod.

“Right then, grab your coat and let’s get going,” John instructed, approaching the door. 

As Sherlock skulked down the hall towards the coat rack, John smirked.

"The game is on." He muttered under his breath.

 

**  
**


End file.
